


I'll Do It All Again

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Based on a Fall Out Boy Song, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers deserve so many hugs, Drabble Series, M/M, Stucky - Freeform, sort of songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:44:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: It’s a twist in the universe, the inability to separate Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Where one would go, the other would follow.Drabble series based on Fall Out Boy's "The Kids Aren't Alright".





	1. Fall To Your Knees, Bring The Rapture

**Author's Note:**

> I kid you not, I have never been more terrified of posting something than I am of posting this series. I have read so many amazing Stucky fics that I basically screamed my way through writing this series. Hopefully, you guys will still enjoy it. All parts are written and will be crossposted from my tumblr as I post them there. Enjoy.

_1929_

Sarah Rogers may be Irish, but she hasn’t been the best catholic of late. Too often, her Sundays have been spent by her son’s side, dabbing a wet cloth against his forehead, his mouth moving as if speaking but no words come out. The women in the congregations would probably say her boy is near death, that he’s talking to the angels and saints coming to claim his soul. They’d arrange their features into expressions of pity and well-meaning concern, and maybe that’s another reason Sarah has not felt too guilty about missing mass.

Steve is not dying. He’s not. It’s a mantra she keeps repeating to herself with every bout of flu, every hitch in the boy’s breath when he overexerts himself until it becomes a learned response whenever Steve looks even the slightest bit tired. They have very little by means of worldly possessions and wealth, but to Sarah Rogers, her son is more precious than any riches that could be thrown their way.

It’s winter, and the cold air and tempestuous weather has Steve bedridden again, coughing and fighting against a fever that night after night refuses to break. Sarah is on her last ounce of energy when a timid knock on their door pulls her from the despair. She’s got an apology ready on her tongue, expecting one of the neighbours to complain about Stevie’s cough being to loud, and she’s not sure why she’s even surprised when it’s her son’s constant companion standing outside, hands clasped in front of him and looking up at her expectantly.

“Hi, mrs. Rogers,” he greets, always so polite and charming, and it tugs at something in Sarah’s heart.

“Bucky, I’m sorry, Steve can’t come out today…” she starts, smoothing back her hair and straightening out her clothes.

“No, mrs. Rogers, I know, I have his homework, and I thought maybe I could keep him company for a while?”

Sarah sighs. The two boys have been inseparable ever since finding each other in the school yard when Steve started first grade. Sometimes it hurts to see just how much of her late husband she can see in her son. He’s got most of her looks, but the temperament and the penchant for getting into trouble… That’s all Joseph.

“Just a little while, Bucky. Your ma won’t be happy if you get sick.”

“Promise! Thank you, mrs. Rogers!”

And with that, Bucky bounds through the tiny apartment, his backpack bouncing against his back. The door to Stevie’s room opens and closes soon after, and for the first time in hours, Sarah feels like she can breathe. Maybe it’s wrong to rely on a child to keep an eye on her son, but she’ll take what she can get. Backing up, she leans against the kitchen counter, quietly counting her breaths, taking stock of her own well-being.  She could do with more sleep, more food, more… everything. But they are doing okay, under the circumstances. _And Steve will get better_. She repeats it quietly to herself just to be sure before setting about making dinner.

By the time she’s done, the boys are still holed up in Steve’s room, and Sarah’s about ready to send Bucky back home, fearing that the boy might fall ill. Her steps are soft and near-silent when she approaches the door. Even though it’s closed, she can hear Bucky’s animated voice.

“Daddy said they gonna start building next year. Tallest building in the world, can you believe it, Stevie!”

If Steve replies, it’s too weak to carry through the door.

“Maybe when you get better, we can go look at it! Daddy said he’d be working, I’m gonna ask him if we can go up on the beams and look out over the city. Betcha we could see all the way home.”

In that moment, Sarah Rogers has never envied someone as much as she envies Bucky Barnes. Much as she doesn’t want to, she lives in a constant state of “if” when it comes to Steve. “If” does not exist for Bucky, everything is “when”. Sniffing, Sarah knocks on the door, and within five minutes, the Barnes boy has said his goodbye, promising to come back tomorrow with more homework and more stories.

Maybe Sarah Rogers has not been the best catholic as of late, but that night, she falls to her knees by her bed, praying with all of her heart for her son to get better, to live, to survive. She promises her life to the saints in exchange for her son’s health, swears that he’ll grow up good and strong if only God will be merciful and spare him this one time.

Bucky keeps visiting. Three days after her desperate prayer, she hears Steve laugh at something Bucky said, and that night, the fever finally breaks. Sarah Rogers is on her knees again that night, thanking God and his angels and the saints for their mercy.


	2. Blessed Be the Boys

_1943-1945_

He swears his heart stops when he sees Bucky strapped to that gurney, eyes unseeing as he keeps repeating his name, rank and number. Or maybe it breaks, each repetition driving the cracks deeper until there’s nothing but shards remaining. _Bucky, what have they done to you?_ His hands, stronger and bigger, more steady than they have been in all of his life, still tremble and fumble when he frees Bucky, wanting nothing more than to hold him close and make this place disappear.

It’s a twist in the universe, the inability to separate Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Where one would go, the other would follow. When Steve continued to be plagued by illness, Bucky would be there every afternoon, Steve’s homework tucked in with his own, always staying longer than he probably should, but never once catching any illness himself. When Bucky starts boxing, there’s Steve in the stands, the pen in his hand scratching quick sketches of figures moving in a complicated dance.

Sometimes, Steve wonders if the way they spend time together is… different. If the way Bucky’s arms sometimes slings around his shoulders is more than just a friendly act of affection. He’s know for some time that the way he feels about Bucky has started to transcend that of friendship, and it’s hurting him more than any of his physical ailments, because Bucky… Bucky is not… _that_. Steve’s hesitant enough to think of himself as something he doesn’t even dare put a word on, but Bucky? It feels blasphemous to even think of Bucky in thoughts adjacent to such labels. And yet…

Every double date he gets dragged along to, every Sunday breakfast they share, every bout of illness, it brings along with it those tantalizing thoughts of what if. What if Bucky would blow off his date and the two of them would go out instead? What if he’d have the courage to lean over and kiss Bucky in the quiet hours of the day they always have to themselves? What if in the face of uncertainty and sickness, he’d actually tell Bucky how he feels?

Those words and thoughts that have been bottled up inside him for years threaten to spill out the moment Bucky recognizes him. He’s prepared to tear down the whole building to get them out, to move them to safety, and when he soars over a flaming inferno, the only thing he can think of is the man following his flight with the same blue eyes Steve could sketch down to the smallest detail with his eyes closed.

He forces everything back under lock and key, because this is not the time. Marching back to camp is not the time. War is not the time. There will be an after. So long as he can keep them both alive, he can wait. The world will still be cruel, and Steve knows he’ll be putting more on the line than his heart with a confession he writes and rewrites every day.

_“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight… I’ll follow him.”_

Steve thinks it’s the best he’ll ever get. He’s still convinced that if – when, rather – he tells Bucky how he feels, a happy ending won’t be guaranteed. For a while, he had the next best thing, and he’s fully prepared to let it sustain him for the rest of his life, however long that might be. He’ll follow Bucky for as long as he’ll have him. It’s worked out so far. The universe can’t seem to keep them apart. He’ll follow Buck, and Buck will follow him.

Until the tr-

Until the-

Until-

His world rips apart, his nights are drawn-out nightmares of watching his best friend, the man he loves- slowly shrinking from him, every inch between them tearing at something dark and terrible in his soul. He never told him. The words are still locked up, and he can’t- He can’t-

People sometimes commented on the odd friendship. Bucky Barnes and that Rogers boy. Little did they know the grounding impact Bucky had on Steve, the tempering and calming influence that came from simply being around. His recklessness returns full force after Bucky falls, and as Steve steers the Valkyrie into the ocean, he knows it might not work. The world might still burn despite his sacrifice. And his last thundering thought:

_It might as well._


	3. Time Can't Capture

_1945-2014_

They both sleep. One is lost to the world, hidden away and trapped in the last hopeless thought crossing his mind. The other is simply lost, a memory trapped in a mangled body and growing ever fainter with every physical and mental violation. Sometimes it remembers, thinks it remembers. A smile, the sensation of a hand touching, a scratching sound.

The memory thinks it had a name once, that it was a person, that it had a body it could control. There had to be a time before this. Something gnaws at the edges, too flimsy to grasp, but it feels important and tastes like regret.

The edges blur, and sometimes he- it-

The edges blur and some moments are more lucid than others. They have an icy edge, the world tilts, but there is clarity. There’s a name on the tip of the tongue, and the worry and regret burrowing in the soul can almost make it to the surface. There is a name, and another name, and a-

“Желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать.”

No, wait. Don’t, there’s something-

“Рассвет. Печь. Девять.”

It- My name-

“Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один.”

Ste-

“Грузовой вагон.”

The body complies. The body moves, the body obeys, the body sleeps.

—

Another body sleeps, slowly coaxed into the light. He remembers, brought into a world that has run away from him, called upon to save a world he had hoped would pass. The red, white and blue taunt him, and although he gains a family of sorts he still feels lonely.

He wants to tell them he doesn’t belong. He wants to tell them the cube wasn’t the only thing they should have left alone. He just wants to rest. He just wants to live in that emptiness where he didn’t know better, where maybe his mind thought it was any point in history before 1943. There are nights when he stands in front of his bathroom mirror, scrutinizing his face, his stature, bending his knees and wishing he was small again. There are nights, and they blend, the soft hum of the city not enough to lull him fully to sleep.

And then-

It’s like the seasonal flu he used to get. No matter how much he tried avoid all the things that could bring it on, it always returned. HYDRA rears its ugly head, and he’s chasing a ghost. He wishes over and over that he’d never been found, that they would have let him sleep like a coward because this is not what he fought for, what he crashed for-

_“Bucky?”_

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

—

The body jerks, the body rebels. The body wishes to connect with the memory. The face of the man causes stirrings and stirrings cause discipline. The body falls in line, the body obeys orders. There is a face. There is a man. There is-

_“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”_

There is a man, falling through the air. The mind experiences vertigo, it’s like a horribly distorted mirror image. The memory stakes its claim.

_Steve._


	4. On Film

_2016_

In his defense, Steve wants to say it’s not the craziest thing he’s done, although it definitely places in the top three. It’s hard to keep a levelled head when everything in him is screaming and he has to fight the urge to get his arms around Bucky and never let go. He tries to keep himself calm, collected, reminds himself that the man standing in front of him might not remember him, might not want him there, might try to kill him again.

_“You’re Steve.”_

If there was even the shadow of a doubt, Steve sets it aside. Maybe he’s not the same, not exactly, but he’s Bucky. The universe corrects itself, picks up where it left off, trying to fast-forward through the decades, through the damaged data, through suffering and sleep. It’s Azzano all over again, Steve wanting to whisk Bucky away from it all, from the cameras focused on them, from the accusations, from the world.

They were never meant for this.

On their way to Siberia, Steve ponders the life they could have had. A hell of a lot simpler than this, that’s for sure. Bucky working down at the docks or one of the auto repair shops. Anything really, Buck never had a problem charming people, and he was versatile. Steve could maybe have gotten a desk job somewhere based on his artistic skills, something where he might he able to work from home when he gets sick, because…

Because of course the life he imagines them having is the one that stopped existing the second Steve stepped into that machine back in ‘43, the one where they would be nobodies, and his own feelings would be left in the dark. But… if that’s the sacrifice he’d have to make for them to live a life without suffering, without the limelight, then Steve would give it up in a second.

_“I’m not sure I’m worth all of this.“_

Steve has long since resigned himself to not being able to express in words all the things he wishes he could say to Bucky. So he shows him. He shows him the loyalty that has not waned one bit over the decades, the recklessness that has wheedled its way into the core of him, the absolute conviction that yes, Bucky is worth all of it. He’s worth the hurt, worth the split, worth leaving behind the shield.

Days later, far from the biting cold and the devastation, he’s watching the love of his life prepare to go to sleep again. He tells himself it’s not permanent. He tells himself it’s for Bucky’s own good, that this is Bucky’s choice. He has those now, has independence and options and this is his choice.

He brought it up on the way to Wakanda, muttering the request before drifting off, and Steve thought his heart was gonna stop. He’s never been a good catholic, his mass attendance was spotty at best when he was young, and despite his god-fearing image, he spends more time doubting than praying. But then and there, he prays, asks for his friend to be spared, echoing another prayer from nearly eighty years back. _Not him. Not today. Please, not him._

Hidden away from the attention of a world seeking retribution, he sees Bucky make his choice. For the good of them all, for his own sake. Just until they can figure things out. There’s been something brewing between them, circling each other with a polite kind of curiosity now that they aren’t running or fighting.

Steve tries to stay still while Bucky’s being prepped. The arm is gone, the stump covered and T’Challa says they can look at options when they have broken the conditioning. It’s not important to Steve. His eyes are trained on Bucky, on the softness of his features, the gentle movements when he’s being prepared. Maybe he should..? They’re safe, it’s a new century- Bucky must have noticed- Maybe it won’t be-

“Buck?”

He can do it. He walks over the the gurney. The time is right. He can do it. He’s-

“You sure about this?”

He’s a coward. He’s a coward and he loves Bucky too much, wants to see him smile that small smile every damn day, wants to keep him safe from everything.

Even if it’s from Steve himself.

The pod shuts, the chill billows in, frosts the glass case. Steve heaves a sigh, touching his hand to the cool surface.

“I love you, Buck.”


	5. Or Inbetween The Sheets

He wants to be there when Bucky comes out of cryo, he really does. But in the time that has lapsed, his sense of duty has gotten the better of him. If there is nothing else to do, he might as well fight. It’s what he does, what he’s been doing all his life. Steve tells himself it’s an unfortunate coincidence when word from T’Challa’s scientists comes through.

_We have found the solution. Barnes to be brought out of cryo immediately. We expect to see results within a few days._

Steve returns a week later after a successful mission, his stomach in knots. It’s like an invisible chord tugging on him, calling him back and he’s trying to slow down. He tells himself to be realistic, to be open-minded, to not expect the man he comes home to to be the man that fell. But god, does he long for the reunion.

It’s not like the procedure would change Bucky, but he still look so different when he opens the door to his own quarters. His hair is shorter, the sleeve cap that covered his stump is gone and a new arm has been fitted. It’s aesthetics, Steve knows, and it’s not even what has his insides in a flurry. It’s the light behind Bucky’s eyes when he sees Steve, no longer tentative recognition, but the sparks of true kinship.

_He remembers._

“They told me you were back.”

“M-mission.” The word stumbles across his lips, and he has to look away. “Came as soon as I could.”

A hand touches his shoulder, it’s weight familiar and comforting, the way it’s been for as long as he can remember. It begs him to look back up, to confront reality, to set that spark of hope afire again. Steve has told himself he can’t possibly love Bucky any more than he does, can’t find any new facets to promise to cherish, but god, he’s falling all over again.

“Hey, punk.”

He wants to live in this moment forever, this little sliver that feels so much like that night back in ‘43 and makes the lump in his throat swell until he thinks he won’t be able to breathe, much less talk. The hug that follows is easy, a sense of belonging, of never having even left. Steve finally finds his words, all two of them.

“Hey, jerk.”

It’s still early days, and the doctors and scientists explain that not all memories are back, that they will resurface over time. Bucky’s mind won’t know the difference between the memories he want and the ones he’d rather leave behind, which is why Steve finds himself rushing into Bucky’s room at 3 am one night to find him thrashing in his bed. He doesn’t linger on how he needs to convince Bucky that he is real, that this is real, tries not to let his pulse run away from him when Bucky slumps against him, exhausted and breathing shallowly, quietly asking if Steve can stay.

“Just for a while, I can’t-”

Steve doesn’t let him finish his request. Of course he’ll stay. He’ll always stay.

They salvage the partially ripped sheets, draping them over themselves to hide from the world. It’s a mirror-image of how things used to be; Steve’s the one holding Bucky back to chest, his hand splayed over Bucky’s ribs, anchoring them both.

“Steve?” His voice is still a little raw from screaming, but there’s no mistaking the curiosity.

“Hmm?”

For a moment they both lie still, and Steve can practically hear the wheels turning in Bucky’s head.

“Before… before I went in. You asked me something.” He hesitates again. “It wasn’t what you really wanted to say, was it?”

Part of Steve wants to protest and lie and say it was. But he’s tired. He doesn’t want to run anymore. They said til the end of the line, and maybe this is it.

“No,” he whispers, careful not to tense up or even move a muscle.

Bucky stays quiet, even breaths marking time passed. Steve’s not sure what it means, the silence, the lack of questions, and so he can do little but wait, let time pass until Bucky moves. In an instant they’re face to face in the dark room, breaths fanning on each other’s faces.

“Me, too,” Bucky finally whispers, his voice so sure that it confounds Steve.

“Buck? Wha-”

Bucky’s lips are on his, tentative and sweet, kissing him like it’s something they have always done and _dear god, is this what dying feels like?_ Steve always figured he’d be the one that would have to take the step, too afraid of whether he’d ever meet solid ground or not to ever really take it. He has dreamed of this, of what it would be like to kiss Bucky, to love him truly and freely without having to keep it to himself like a shameful secret.

With a final peck, Bucky lets out a breath, nuzzling into the crook of Steve’s neck.

“I said, ‘me, too’, Steve.”

Steve never bothers to go back to his own room.


	6. I Always Fall From Your Window To the Pitch Black Streets

They have been fighting for years, and even though the serum in their veins have kept them from feeling any lasting effects of physical injuries, there is a fatigue in their souls that weighs heavier than any wound. It’s been festering there for some time, making itself known in the quiet hours of the night after they have returned from a mission, wrapped up in each other on a bed that is just a little too small for their frames.

It’s comfort, a way to ground themselves and to remind themselves of the life they had.

The team is same and different; some have transitioned out, some have passed. They remain a constant. Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Bucky doesn’t exactly like the epithet, but it’s stuck with him. Steve has been playing pretend for so long, he sometimes doesn’t know how to leave it behind once they get back home.

“What if we left?” Steve says one night, Bucky’s head resting on his arm.

“Sure,” Bucky mumbles, pulling Steve a little closer, almost asleep already. “Vacation sounds nice.”

“No.” Steve shuffles around until he’s on his side, rousing Bucky from his half-sleep enough to make that line of worry appear between his eyebrows. “No, I mean- What if we _left_.”

It’s not like they have talked about it. Maybe joked on occasion. Stepping down, hanging their gear and just… leaving. They’ve started talking about Brooklyn with a sense of nostalgia that’s starting to hurt a little, about places long gone out of business, about people long since dead and gone.

“I’m tired, Buck. I’m- I don’t think I wanna do this anymore. We’ve been chasing down bad guys for longer than we should even have been alive. I can’t make myself unwind, I can’t remember when I last had a moment of peace. I think about us, and I can’t remember what it’s like to be Steve Rogers anymore. It’s like…”

“Like you’ve had to lock yourself away. Or maybe been locked away.” Bucky’s answer is quiet, but his words might as well have been shouted from the rooftops.

Steve swallows, tries the words before he says them out loud: “I don’t wanna be Captain America anymore.”

Even in the darkness, he can see Bucky’s smile, the small one that quirks the corners of his lips higher on one side, the one he remembers is Bucky’s way of saying “finally, you dumbass”.

“I don’t wanna be the Winter Soldier anymore,” comes the reply, and it cements something between them, lays a whole new quiet over the room.

Part of Steve feels guilty for admitting something like this, for putting his own needs – _their own needs_ – first, but god, does it feel good to have finally said it. The fatigue recedes, leaves space for a buzzing fueled by their confessions.

“We could leave,” he says, trying the suggestion again.

“We could,” Buck agrees, taking Steve’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

“What are they gonna do, come after us and drag us back kicking and screaming?”

“Two supersoldiers? Nah. ‘Sides, took you fucking two years to find me, not like they would find us anytime soon.”

Steve nods absentmindedly, mind already skipping ahead. “We’re leaving.”

Buck’s reply is to get up, walking into their closet for a backpack. It’s methodical and chaotic in equal measure, a steady stream of silent arguments over what to leave behind and what to pack, and if they should actually tell anyone. In the end, there’s not a lot to bring, and not that much to leave behind. An unmade bed, a soldier, a captain. By the time the others find their empty room, they’re long gone.

—

Two men walk down a street, hands clasped together, a plastic bag of fruit swinging between them.

“Do you have to wear those?”

“I like them!”

“They make you look old, Steve.”

“Then I’m dressing my age.”

“Oh, fuck you, punk.”

“In public? Really, I thought you were more of a gentleman than that.”

“I’m sorry, I believe our marriage certificate does not include that title.”

“Buck, our marriage certificate doesn’t even include our real names.”

The bag comes to a stop between them, yanked right before going still.

“Buck, no, don’t- It doesn’t matter. I don’t care that Samuel and Nathaniel were the ones getting married. They’re still more us than anything we ever were after the war. Hey, look at me. I love you. I have loved you since before I really knew what it was, before it was okay, before I had to imagine a world without you. I don’t care what we call ourselves to have this life. So long as I can have it with you, I’ll do it all again.”

“Me, too.”

“Me, too.”

Two men walk down the street, following familiar routes that take them to a building that has refused to be moved in the face of innovation. There’s a different bed waiting for them, but they crawl into it same as they did when they were both smaller. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. 


End file.
